


North

by bklt



Series: Tether [10]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Arguing, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Making Up, Mild Sexual Content, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-24
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-08-28 16:19:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16726758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bklt/pseuds/bklt
Summary: Too much had happened to carry on the way they used to. In some ways it seemed like they did, which was why she hadn’t seen it before. Not a week after Isabela returned had they slept and woken up together, falling into old routine. They talked the same way they used to, topics of varying importance, but never of what happened over those years. It was a wound none of them wanted to reopen, desperate to move on and have everything be okay again. Easy. Normal.And that was just the problem. It was neither of those things.Isabela and Hawke reach a boiling point.





	1. Being Right

The sound of the longcase clock was starting to get to Isabela. The incessant tick-tick-tick was all too loud in the quiet library of Hawke’s estate, making the passage of time too obvious. It was past midnight, and Hawke was sprawled out on the floor, close to dozing off. She got tired quickly as of late, and the boredom of having Isabela rifling through the bookshelves was no doubt making her even more sleepy than she already was.

“You can go to bed, you know,” Isabela said.

Hawke stirred and yawned. “Glad I have permission to use my own house!”

Rolling her eyes, Isabela threw a book onto Hawke’s stomach, who coughed in surprise at the weight of the bound pages.

“‘Bela!”

“Hawke.”

She pushed the book off of her with an annoyed grunt. “Why do you need me to be sentient anyways? Haven’t you looked through my books enough times to know what’s in there?”

“You never know what new things’ll pop up.” Isabela took another book out. “Like this. 101 Uses For A Phallic Tuber? Kinky.”

Hawke scowled. “You put that there.”

“Spoilsport.” Isabela huffed and shoved the book back in place. “Have you eaten today?”

“You saw me eat.”

Isabela crossed her arms. “I can be less subtle if you want.”

Sighing, Hawke sat up and tussled her soft, black hair, which stuck up in the back like some sort of bird. Fitting. “I’m just tired.”

“I know that’s your version of “you have pretty eyes”.”

Hawke hesitated half a second too long, just enough time for Isabela to know she was right. Hawke stood up and dragged herself to Isabela, her housecoat hanging lopsided off her shoulder, a few red and purple marks poking out from earlier that evening.

“I’ve been thinking. This plan for Castillon—do you think it’ll actually work?”

“You came up with it!”

“We know how that usually goes. I’d rather this plan be one that works.”

“It will. Trust me. He’s probably as fed up with this chase as much as I am.”

“He’ll just believe I’d turn you in? We’re not exactly…not involved.”

“As far as he knows, we’re just screwing around, so to speak. That doesn’t always equal loyalty.” She reached out to flatten Hawke's wayward hair, her efforts only partially successful. It was as stubborn as the person it belonged to.

“But…”

Isabela slid her hand onto Hawke’s exposed chest, feeling warmth bloom underneath her palm. “Worried about me, are you? What will people think?”

Hawke closed her eyes and breathed deeply at the touch. “Say it does work...what’s next?”

“Since when do we think ahead?”

“I’m just wondering. There’s no way you haven’t at least thought about it.”

“I don’t know. It’s one of those things you think about but don’t actually think will happen. But I can’t go anywhere-not that I would,” Isabela added quickly. She moved her hand up to Hawke’s collarbones, feeling her breath hitch as she ran her fingers along them. She stopped short at Hawke’s neck, the long scar along her throat a line she wouldn’t cross.

“We’d celebrate, of course.”

Hawke smirked. “Any ideas on what we’d do?”

“That woke you up.” Isabela laughed, tilting Hawke’s chin and giving her a playful kiss. “Probably each other.”

Hawke shook her head. “I set you up for that one.”

“And I knocked it down.”

“With the finesse of a drunkard.”

“I can be dexterous when I want to be. You should know.” Isabela pulled back, turning her interest back to the bookshelf, eyes lazily scanning over the titles written on the spines. “Don’t worry about Castillon. We’ll figure out what to do when we do it-like we always do.”

“You’re probably right. What’s the worst that can happen?”  
  
“Do you always have to say that?”

Pulling her housecoat closed, Hawke moved towards the stairs, using the railing to hold her up. “Yes. But I am actually tired, though. I’m turning in.” She tapped on the wood. “See you in the morning?”

“I’ll join you in a bit. Try not to have too much fun without me.”

Hawke smiled and slowly padded down the steps.

Again Isabela went searching the bookcases. She heard the sound of The Puppy panting happily, Hawke’s voice high and playful. According to Hawke, her, Bethany, and Carver couldn't agree on a name. The Puppy—or Pup—stuck, making for amusing awkward sentences. Though Isabela wasn’t one for dogs, the amount of joy Hawke got out of him was undeniably cute. Laughter flooded up to the ceiling, the tell-tale sign of Hawke getting kissed by the mabari.

Isabela frowned. She still couldn’t find what she was looking for in the cases, and this time she was sure it wasn’t there. She ran over to the balcony window overlooking the main room of the estate, calling after Hawke, who had Pup in a light headlock.

“Where’s that poetry book? The white one?”

Hawke chuckled to herself and let The Puppy go, who looked up to Isabela with his tongue hanging out. “That’s what you were looking for? You have it, remember?”

“What? No I don’t.”

“It’s under your bed, ‘Bela.”

“It is?”

Hawke shrugged with a dramatic sigh. “Someone has to keep track of my belongings you take—whoa!”

Pup knocked her over triumphantly, seemingly smiling up at Isabela and asking for praise.

“Good for you,” she said.

“Aw, come on. He’s just a little puppy! Tell The Puppy how good he is!” She patted him between his ears.

“He’s bigger than you are.”

Hawke pouted. “He’ll always be little to me! Please?”

Isabela hid a smirk when she saw both her and the dog giving puppy-dog eyes. Dogs really did take after their masters. “Fine. You’re a good mabari.”

Puppy barked his thanks and ran up the stairs, his docked tail ticking back and forth outside of the master bedroom as he waited for Hawke.

“Not tonight, boy. We have company.”

Tilting his head at Isabela when she joined them on the landing, he whined and did his best to beg, the sad look in his eyes returning.

“I’m surprised you don’t kick me out of bed for him,” Isabela said. While Fereldans were certainly known for their love of dogs, Hawke’s likely eclipsed all of them.

“He sleeps with me every night. He can wait his turn, can’t he?”

Defeated, Pup lowered his head and plodded down the stairs, taking his spot in front of the fireplace and looking at the two of them with one last, pleading look, chin on top of his paws.

“The Puppy,” Hawke said. “You can't have your way _all_ the time.”

“He must have gotten his flair for the dramatic from you,” Isabela said. “Look at him!”

Pup tilted his head quizzically, one ear perking up.

“You’re just as bad as me.” Hawke opened the doors to her room. “Come on. You have a big day tomorrow.”

Isabela wasted no time tossing her clothes all over the floor, removing several hidden daggers and placing them neatly in a comical pile. Keeping one, she placed it beside her on the bed and pulled up the covers. Hawke winced as she joined her, laying on her back and putting a pillow under her.

“Your hip?”

Hawke shrugged. “I knew better than to lay on the floor. I’m a crumbling disaster.”

Isabela huffed. Hawke liked to poke fun at her body. Her broad shoulders and long arms were disproportionate in comparison, and a bad hip resulted in a stuttering gait. Isabela never saw these as a bad thing, and she told Hawke many times. It was uniquely her. Isabela enjoyed running her hands along those same shoulders and feeling those long arms wrap tightly around her back, Hawke’s body beneath her own.

“You should slow down. Coast on your success and all of that.” Isabela blew out the candle, letting the darkness wash over them, save for the lantern light coming through the tall windows.

“Strange advice, coming from you.”

“Not everyone is me.”

“Thank the Maker. I don't think the world could handle two of you.” Isabela could sense Hawke's know-it-all smirk even in the dark. “Besides, weren’t you the one who said something big was going to happen to me? I can’t stop now.”

“You’re putting a lot of faith in that.”

“Why not? You seem to believe it.”

“And we know how wrong I’ve been before,” Isabela said, turning on her side and feeling the hilt of her dagger.

“We’re both not good at being right.”

Hawke turned on her side, adjusting the pillow so it rested between her knees, her way of easing the pressure on her hip. She eased her back into Isabela’s, the worn fabric of her housecoat soft against her bare skin.

“We better be right about tomorrow,” Isabela said. “We didn’t come up with a backup plan.”

“Like you said, since when do we think ahead?”

“Hmm.”

Closing her eyes, Isabela tried her best to feel tired, wanting badly to sleep away the anticipation of seeing Castillon again. Freedom was so close. It seemed unreal, the prospect of never having to look over her shoulder or have Castillon's smug grin prying its way into her thoughts even in times she was enjoying herself. She smiled, almost cruel. The grip around her dagger tightened as she imagined what it would feel like to go in for the killing blow. She would put him down at last, and with him, any last connection she had to a past life she left behind.

“Do you have to hold your dagger while you sleep? It makes me nervous,” Hawke said.

“You act like I’m the weird one. You of all people should be sleeping with one eye open.”

“Well that didn’t sound threatening!”

“I didn’t mean because of me, you goose.”

She felt Hawke’s laugh through her back. “It’s a good thing I have you, then.”

“I’m not always here.”

“I have Pup too!”

“The Puppy wouldn’t help. He’d probably try to play with an intruder rather than fight them.”

“You should’ve seen him the last few times he thought someone was a threat to me. Didn’t end well for them.”

Isabela idly ran her fingers over the cold metal of the blade. “You should still sleep with a knife.”

“Fine. I will. I’m not getting out of bed to get one now though.”

Isabela reached over the edge of the bed and carefully felt around for one of her spare knives, picking one and placing it in between their two pillows. “There.”

“Feel better?”

“You’ll thank me later.”

“I’d rather I didn’t have to.”

Isabela chuckled and curled her arms under her pillow, resting into Hawke’s back. She became aware of the different timing of their breaths, focusing on her own deep inhales. It had a calming effect, counting her own rhythm until she felt herself drift off, Hawke snoring lightly beside her.


	2. Drinks In Company

The saltwater air never felt so good to breathe.

It was a first breath, reborn, the weight of six years falling from Isabela’s shoulders, shackles undone like a prisoner pardoned. Adrenaline pulsed through her veins even as she left the warehouse, her mind attempting to grasp the enormity of the situation.

Castillon was gone. She was free.

It didn’t end the way she fantasized about in some of her finer dreams, a blade over his throat or in a duel to the death where she emerged victorious, standing over his limp body. In fact, it’d been unceremonious, as most things go when they’re resolved. It would have been disappointing if it wasn’t for what came out of it in the end. In exchange for giving him the documents that incriminated him as a slaver, she would get his ship—the fastest in the ocean, more gorgeous than the _Siren’s Call._ Castillon had no choice but to agree. As powerful as he was, no one was so bold as to challenge a noose when it loomed over them.

After all this time, Isabela finally had her ship, the only other thing she wanted more than Castillon dead, enough she would let him crawl around somewhere, as shipless and shamed as she had been when this all began. She could leave Kirkwall on her own terms, and build herself back up to a life surrounded by endless sea, something she had almost given up on imagining.

And yet…

A light chuckle came from beside Isabela, Hawke stopping to stand with her. The late afternoon shone on Hawke’s golden brown skin, her face scrunching at the light in her eyes. She held up a gauntleted hand to shield them, her fingers sharp metal talons.

“I expected that to be more dramatic.”

“I’m alright with something unexciting happening once in a while,” Varric said behind her. He wiped Bianca off with a clean rag, a sheen of sweat on his brow. Aveline towered above all of them, who shook her head with a smug smile.

“A new concept for our pirate queen.”

“I’m just glad to be done with it.” Isabela’s hands were still shaking. “And I don’t know about you lot, but I think we could all use a drink. My treat.”

“Oh good! I love getting free garbage,” Hawke said. She was in.

“For this occasion? Not a chance, Rivaini,” Varric said. “I’ve been saving something special just for this.”

“You expected her to make a deal that ended with a slaver going free?” Aveline said. “On second thought…”

“Oh, don’t be like that. You’re happy for me and we both know it. You can pretend to be grouchy at the Hanged Man.”

“And I know you can’t pass on a good drink,” Hawke said.

Aveline sighed. “What is it?”

“Carnal,” said Varric.

Isabela whistled. “A drink like that will make this celebration take an unexpected turn. Not that I’d complain,” Isabela said, giving Aveline a look she knew would make her scoff.

“It’s a fitting drink for you, ‘Bela,” Hawke said.

“My thoughts exactly,” said Varric. “But it’s worth sitting with the three of us for it. Promise.”

The Guard Captain was doing a poor job of looking disinterested. Pretending to consider for a moment longer, Aveline sighed once again.

“I’ll admit, I am a little curious.”

“That’s my girl!” Isabela said, already turning to make her way to the Hanged Man without looking over her shoulder. As much as she usually enjoyed the docks, she was looking forward to sitting down. Maybe then her legs would stop shaking.

Like Isabela, Varric’s room was permanently rented out from the Hanged Man. Kirkwall had dozens of taverns all across the city, but the Hanged Man was one of the most popular, especially for various undesirable types.

The Hanged Man was horrible. Isabela loved it.

Varric and Isabela didn’t want for excitement with their living arrangement. Every night something ridiculous happened, fights started over nothing, or men unsuccessfully attempting to sleep with Isabela by spouting poetry that even Hawke could write better. The stories that came out of it were the best part, either from the things she’d see or heard from Varric. She’d frequently see patrons huddled around him, captivated by his latest yarn. Occasionally he’d ask Isabela for confirmation when he said something particularly outrageous, and she’d play along and add her own details for him to weave into his tale.

Having easy access to a stream of drinks didn’t hurt either, even if it was pure swill. When she was lucky, Varric would share a bottle of something interesting he happened to get his hands on. Varric wasn’t much for keeping his possessions for himself, and he was more than happy to share with people he was close to.

A chorus of happy cheers greeted Isabela as she entered, growing louder when Hawke and Varric followed her. At seeing Aveline the noise died down, everyone suddenly busy staring at their drinks.

“I’m not sure if I should be offended or happy.”

“Happy,” Isabela and Hawke replied in unison.

Varric lead the way now, dodging a puddle of unknown origin and squeezing his way under two people locked in a heated argument. “You come around enough that they know you’re not here to arrest them. Probably.”

A stern look from Aveline stopped the men’s fighting. “I don’t know how I get myself roped into here.”

“Pretend to hate us all you want Captain, but you’d be lonely without us.”

“It’s not that. It’s the location. Why not Hawke’s house?”

“Why not yours? Besides, it’s less of a big deal if someone spill something this way,” Varric said.

“Fair.”

They made their way up the staircase to the top floor.

Isabela always liked Varric’s room. The furnishing was the work of Orzammar dwarves, simple yet ornate metal patterns set in polished, carved stone. Varric’s taste in decor didn’t come out of sentimentality for his heritage. While he felt an obligation to dwarven customs—it was inevitable given his dealings—he was surface-born through and through, and he collected the dwarven treasures for its craftsmanship rather than its origin.

Bright red drapes hung from the high ceiling, and a fine collection of various oddities decorated each surface, from unique weaponry to old books and tomes carefully placed on the numerous stone bookshelves. Though Isabela knew she wouldn’t be able to read whatever archaic language they were written in, she would open them anyways and gaze at the fading ink. It made her feel how she did more than a decade ago, seeing written words as indecipherable symbols.

Once the group made their arrival, Aveline and Hawke removed the biggest parts of their armour and set it aside, making themselves more comfortable. Aveline unstrapped her sword and gigantic steel shield, heat treated to create a green and orange sheen like a glass-blown vase. A gift from Hawke.

Aveline and Hawke were physical opposites, and it was further highlighted without layers of protection. Aveline was tall and muscular, a battering ram of a woman whose presence alone was enough to stop would-be criminals in their tracks. Hawke looked smaller than she actually was beside her: short and lithe with the expected quickness to match. She pulled on her red tunic to air herself out, happy to be free of the leather straps across her chest.

Feeling Isabela trying to burn a hole through her clothes, Hawke met her eyes and smirked. Her hair was sticking up every which way, the result of an awkward growing in process. Isabela still wasn’t used to it. Hawke shaved all of it off in the years she was gone, a gesture that didn’t go unnoticed by Isabela. She winked back and quickly turned away from Hawke, heading to take a seat at the table.

Unlike Hawke, Isabela liked being warm, so she sat in the chair closest to the tall fireplace, letting the heat sink into her skin. The burning wood have a sweet smell, covering the usual unpleasant aroma of the Hanged Man. She was finally starting to calm down. Varric began to set the table, bringing out the good goblets and giving the most ornate one to Isabela, gold and studded with various precious gems.

With everyone seated, Varric finally brought out the bottle of Carnal. An Orlesian liquor, the clear glass bottle showed off its rose-pink hue, as well as a piece of carved wood that sat at the bottom, meant to represent a peach pit. Varric uncorked it with a flourish, pouring it into Isabela’s goblet first, before moving around the table and ending at himself.

“You do the honours, Rivaini,” he said, stretching out his hand. She brought the goblet to her mouth, the sweetness spreading across her lips and tongue. It reminded her of fresh nectar, pleasant and appropriately tasting of peaches, honey, and a note of something floral. It was also stronger than she expected: she could see why it was rumoured to have some sort of “special” effect on the imbiber.

“You’ll be happy you came, big girl,” she said to Aveline. “It’s fantastic.”

Aveline didn’t need encouragement. Taking her own sip, she looked impressed. “You’re right—for once,” she said, needing to get a jab in. “This _is_ fantastic.”

Varric looked pleased with himself, a knowing glint in his eyes from behind his goblet. Hawke was already nose deep into hers, deciding she liked it enough to drink almost all of it in one go.

“I see you agree,” Isabela said.

“It’s better than the type of free drinks you were offering,” Hawke said, slowly wiping her lips with the back of her hand. Isabela raised an eyebrow.

“So, a new ship,” Aveline said. “You’re sure you’ll still be here by morning?”

Isabela frowned. Exchanging verbal barbs with Aveline was expected, as was her comment. It wasn’t surprising she had her doubts. But Aveline was the only one who brought up the subject of her leaving.

_If you’re looking to sail off, I think the sunset’s that way._

“I’m not leaving,” Isabela said, careful not to snap. “Besides, what would you do without me?”

“Find peace,” Aveline said.

“I keep you sharp.”

“A sharp thorn in my side, more like.”

“Oof. Not sharp enough by the looks of it.”

“You two are adorable,” Hawke said, hiding her smirk in another drink.

Aveline ignored her. She rubbed her thumb over an emerald set in her goblet. “I’m not sure letting Castillon was the right choice.”

Isabela secretly agreed. She was given a chance to end what begun, to stop Castillon and his slave trade forever. But she took having a ship over giving him the fate he deserved. She wasn’t looking forward to what Fenris would have to say. He always gave her too much credit, and this would certainly give him pause.

“Castillon’s days are as good as over. He lost his ship to me.” _A disgraced Captain,_ she added privately. It would take a while to rebuild her reputation, but it wasn’t going to be as bad as someone of Castillon’s stature falling from such a height—especially if people knew it was by her hand.

“Unless he wants all of Thedas finding out why, he has to tell a lie that’ll make me look good—and him an utter fool. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that killing someone isn’t as good as humiliating them.”

“Perhaps we could try humiliating people more often then,” Hawke said.

“Ooh. Luckily, that happens to be a specialty of mine,” Isabela winked. She heard Varric choke on his drink when Aveline let out a disgusted grown. He clapped a hand on the Guard Captain’s shoulder in a gesture of camaraderie.

“Hey, you only have to hear her joke about it. Try living near her. Some of the shit I hear—”

“Do we have to do this?” Hawke interrupted.

“I never said anything about it involving you,” Varric said. to Isabela’s surprise, Aveline was quite amused at seeing Hawke respond more strongly than she should have.

“Oh?”

“I hear “yes Captain” more than on an actual ship. Or from any of your guards.” Varric grinned, reveling in Hawke covering her face and uttering a curse to the Maker.

Torn between hearing too much information and finding Hawke’s embarrassment hilarious, Aveline uncharacteristically giggled and drank from her cup. “Captain’s hat on or off?”

Isabela kicked Hawke under the table. “I don’t know, Hawke! Which one is it?”

“Forget what I said about you two being adorable. You’re actually terrible.”

“On,” Varric stage whispered. Aveline gleefully watched Hawke sigh in exasperation.

“I don’t want to know how you knew that.”

“I didn’t.”

Hawke dropped her head on the table. “Damn it.”

“Well, this means you’ll have plenty of practice for when you get on Isabela’s ship,” Aveline said.

The joke soured in Isabela’s stomach. They never talked about Hawke coming along, not seriously. They both knew where they stood, and it was Isabela out on deck at sea, and Hawke in the Kirkwall streets. But the image of Hawke with her was oddly tempting even so. To have Hawke by her side, her eyes matching the endless blue that stretched into the horizon…

The alcohol was hitting her harder than she thought.

Hawke forced a laugh. “Well, we’ll see about all that.” She looked at Isabela with an expression she couldn’t quite place. “I’m happy you have your ship. It...I know how important this is to you.” She scratched at her collarbones.

“I know we fight each other more often than not, but I’m glad too,” Aveline said. A rosy blush from the alcohol bloomed on her cheeks. “You’re not awful, it turns out. I’d even say I like you.”

“Was that a compliment? You ought to drink with us more often!” Isabela said.

Aveline smiled. “I don’t like you that much.”

Varric folded his hands in his lap and gave his friends a meaningful glance. “You ever think about how impossible all the shit we’ve seen is?”

“Yes.”

“I try not to.”

Hawke tapped her fingers on the stone table. “It’s so normal I forget that anything I say sounds like a lie. Or a bad joke...the “you had to be there” type.”

“Don’t get too complacent. There’s enough people who want you dead,” Aveline said.

Hawke shrugged. “A sad fact of life.”

“With Castillon still around you somehow have an even bigger target on your back. Add in the other fact you and Isabela are inseparable—”

“I told you, Castillon isn’t going to be an issue. Besides, you don’t have to worry about Hawke,” Isabela said.

“Sure. When I’m dead maybe.”

Something they both could agree on.

“Point is, it hasn’t been easy. It’s nice when something actually works out for us,” Varric said. “Congratulations on your ship, Rivaini. You deserve it.”

His rough hewn features softened, that sympathetic look of knowing a secret. He out of everyone knew what it took for Isabela to get where she was. Even Hawke was unaware of some pieces, too painful to bring up. It was only out of an accident that Varric was made aware of it, an emotional night of drinking that caused her to reveal more than intended. As much as Varric proudly touted himself as someone who was dishonest, Isabela knew his congratulations were genuine. The ship was a victory a long time coming.

“Took me long enough,” Isabela mumbled, grabbing the bottle of Carnal and pouring more for herself.

“So what’s next? A bigger hat?” asked Varric.

“That goes without saying!”

“I’m sure Hawke will love that,” Aveline said.

“You’re as bad as she is!” Hawke cried.

Isabela cocked her head in thought. “Captain wasn’t ambitious enough—I’m thinking Admiral. I can finally outrank Aveline.”

“Do you always have to get one up on me?” Aveline said, accepting the bottle Isabela handed to her.

She shrugged. “It keeps me motivated.”

Their conversation turned elsewhere, eventually meandering to old, happy times, as it always does when drinking in company. No one was immune to teasing. The ordeal with Aveline and Donnic was of particular interest.

“That was the most awkward moment of my life,” Hawke said, her grin lopsided from the alcohol. “Do you know how impossible it is to come up with a topic of conversation with someone you barely know? It’s just repeating, “wow, looks like no one’s showing up!” until an hour crawls by without Aveline making an appearance.”

“It doesn’t help he’s normally quiet,” Isabela said.

“Quiet isn’t so bad when I’m around you lot constantly,” Aveline said.

Hawke’s grin turned toothy and devious. “Well, from what I’ve experienced, he’s not so quiet when—”

“Hawke!”

“Ooh, I have to hear this!”

“No, you don’t!”

Hawke leaned back on the stone chair. “I was waiting for you to come out of your office after Donnic wanted to speak with you in private. Next thing I know I hear a giggle, things falling on the ground, and a lot of grunting. All in a manner of, oh, five minutes?”

“You stayed outside?!” Aveline’s face matched her hair.

“I left once I figured your private chat was of another sort.”

Isabela whistled. “Five minutes to get to it? With all that armour?”

“You shut up!”

“It’s a compliment!”

Varric chuckled. “Face it Aveline. You kind of deserved that.”

Aveline closed her eyes and flared her nostrils, sighing so hard she saw smoke coming out.

“It touches me to know your needs are being met,” said Isabela.

“Somehow that doesn’t make me feel better.”

“I have your best interests at heart, big girl.”

“You have _one_ interest of mine at heart.”

“And it’s the best one!”

Aveline threw her hands up. “I don’t know how you do it, Hawke.”

“You do now, apparently,” Hawke said, shooting a look at Varric, who feigned shock and innocence.

“Why do our conversations always lead to this?” Aveline said.

“You goaded him!”

Aveline grinned. “Only because I like to watch you squirm for a change.”

Hawke sighed and gave a fond look at Isabela. “She’s alright. Believe it or not, not all of our conversations take a lewd angle.”

“I do find that hard to believe.”

“It’s true,” Varric said. “I think she saves the worst of it for you.”

“Why can’t I ever be privy to these conversations?”

“You never visit me! I don’t think you’ve even seen the inside of my room,” Isabela said.

“Unlike everyone in Kirkwall, no.”

“Not like that, you prig. Merrill’s over all the time. The worst we get up to is staying up too late.”

“Speaking of late,” Hawke said. The sky was beginning to orange through the high windows of Varric’s room, the mark of a long day finally ending.

Isabela drank the last of her Carnal and jumped up with Hawke. “I’ll come with you.”

“I’ll bet,” said Aveline.

“That was too easy. Even you can do better than that.”

“Sounds like someone I know.”

Isabela rolled her eyes and nodded to Varric. “I’m glad we were spared Corff’s swill for a night.”

“Any time, Rivaini. I’ll see you later?”

Glancing at Hawke, Isabela saw her strap her pauldrons back to her shoulders. “That depends.”

Isabela was on Hawke as soon as they left the room, shoving her against the wall and pinning her in a rough kiss, Hawke’s lips parting to let her tongue slip in. Hawke’s cotton tunic was smooth under Isabela’s palms, her fingers curling to grasp at the material, holding Hawke in place. She bit at Hawke’s lip and felt the grip tighten around her waist, pulling her closer so their hips met. The noise of the patrons tunneled up the stairs and muffled their heavy breathing. They didn’t care if any of them noticed. If they did, no one would give it a second thought, their display mild in comparison to others they’d seen out in the open, hands under tables and hiding in darker corners.

“You’ve been looking at me all evening,” Isabela said.

“Oh, my apologies. Shall I avert my gaze?”

Isabela didn’t answer. She continued to kiss her, the lingering taste of peach and honey still on Hawke’s lips.

“We should have that celebration you mentioned elsewhere,” Hawke managed to say through it all, a small sigh leaving her when Isabela kissed the cord of her neck. She brought her lips to Hawke’s ear.

“Oh? And where would that be?”

“I know a spot in Hightown. Big house, all to us.”

“Can you even hold out until then?”

“I could ask you the same—ah—” Hawke hissed through her teeth when Isabela cupped a free hand between her legs. “You started it.”

“And I’ll finish it.” Isabela felt Hawke’s hands moving lower. “Fantastically, I might add.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

“Don’t issue challenges you can’t win.”

The sound of jostling armour caused Isabela to thrust herself off of Hawke, laying her hands down at her sides. Aveline was almost as tall as the doorframe, looking down at the two of them with a frown.

“Isn’t your room right there?” she motioned.

“So you do know where it is!”

Aveline rolled her eyes and passed by without giving the two of them another glance.


	3. Hard To Leave Behind

The black metal torches were already lit when Isabela closed the door to Hawke’s estate, the last vestiges of sunset glinting off the gold trim of the banners leading up the Viscount’s Keep.

A smile crept on her lips, happy and pleased with herself as she breathed the fresh Hightown air. Isabela exhausted Hawke enough that she fell asleep mid conversation, sweating and tangled on top of the red sheets. Walking down the stairs to head back to the Hanged man, she made a mental note to lord that over Hawke in the morning. She could already picture the exasperated huff she would give, trying her best to argue or give an excuse about it. Not that she expected to win. It was all in jest, and she would concede to Isabela with a drawn out sigh, her narrow eyes crinkling in a secretive smirk.

Their mornings were an unspoken agreement between them. It was a habit they’d fallen into, to eat the tasteless porridge out of the same bowl topped with whatever Hawke scrounged up from her stores: usually quail eggs, mushrooms, and, if they were lucky, pork. Hawke took bites of Isabela’s toast because she “forgot” which one was hers, and Isabela would do the same, a silent game.

Perhaps it’d be a morning where they excitedly complained about how poorly they slept, talking about a new ailment they discovered when they woke up. Maybe it’d be a morning where they said nothing at all, Isabela reading while Hawke laid her head on the table, tired and drained from staying up too late. Isabela would scratch Hawke’s scalp once in a while, letting her know she hadn’t forgotten about her, Hawke rolling her head to acknowledge the gesture. Their mornings were predictable. For once, Isabela didn’t mind some sort of predictability in her life.

A small, slender figure caught her eye around the corner, the floating gait immediately recognizable even in the dimming Lowtown light.

“Kitten!”

“Oh! Isabela!”

Merrill was holding a basket of assorted flowers, her hands still caked with the soil of different Hightown nobles’ gardens. Isabela wasn’t sure if Merrill understood the concept of stealing still—at least when it came to picking things outdoors. It was endearing, but the nobles didn’t share the same sentiment. Varric, ever the master of pulling strings, made sure the gardeners would turn the other way when they noticed they were short on a few flowers.

“Nice haul tonight,” Isabela said.

“Thank you. I got this for you.” Isabela watched Merrill’s arm dip into the basket, holding her breath when she saw fresh wounds, a result of whatever magic she’d been casting earlier. She turned her gaze to the large yellow and orange flower Merrill produced. Standing on the tips of her toes, Merrill tucked the flower behind Isabela’s ear and moved her hair around until she was satisfied with the result.

“There!” she said, stepping back and admiring her work.

“How do I look?”

“Pretty, as usual.”

“You’re always so sweet to me, Kitten.”

“It’s very bright. I think you look good in bright colours,” Merrill said. A blue flower came next and she held it up for Isabela to inspect. “I got this one for Hawke.”

Isabela bent down to smell it, smiling and nodding in approval. “Good choice. You know how much I like blue.”

“It matches her eyes. Do you think she’ll like it?”

“She’ll love anything you give her. It’s perfect.”

Though Hawke typically wasn’t one for flowers, she was sentimental to well-intentioned gifts. Isabela knew it’d be carefully placed in a tasteful vase on her desk along with other objects of affection Hawke had acquired. Most of them were from Isabela. Both of their favourite was a nude statue of Andraste so poorly carved that Isabela almost didn’t want to part with it.

“What else have you got in there?” Isabela asked.

“A rose for Varric. It’s romantic, like him. Not that I think he’s romantic in that way! He just likes those stories and—”

“Don’t worry. I know what you mean. He did name his crossbow after his mysterious lover, after all.” Isabela noticed it had already gotten darker in the brief minutes she’d been talking to Merrill. “Where’re you off to?”

“Home.”

“Fancy some company?” Isabela hoped she’d agree. Merrill was more than capable of handling herself, but she didn’t want to leave her alone if she didn’t have to.

To her relief, Merrill nodded enthusiastically. “That would be lovely!”

Isabela looped her arm around Merrill’s, falling into her stride as the elf looked wistfully at a crumbling, tar-blackened wall.

“Did you just see Hawke?”

“How did you know?”

“You were in Hightown, and unless you were at the Rose—oh! Sarcasm!”

“That’s right,” Isabela said. “Long story short, I managed to get Castillon’s ship for myself. Hawke and I were just celebrating.”

“You two must celebrate a lot then!”

Isabela laughed. “We do, don’t we?”

“You’ll tell me about it later, won’t you?”

“Ooh, I didn’t know you wanted details like that! I’d more more than happy to—”

“No! The ship!”

“I’m just teasing, Kitten. Of course I’ll tell you.”

Merrill giggled, looking up at Isabela as if she was about to tell her a big secret. “I think Hawke likes you, Isabela.”

The pirate flinched. “You think so, do you?”

“She looks at you all the time, then she looks embarrassed and pretends she’s busy with something else.”

“I haven't noticed.”

Merrill dropped her voice conspiratorially. “And you like her too. You smile really big and do a different laugh whenever she makes a joke. Even if they’re bad!”

“I suppose that happens from time to time.”

“Have you told her?”

“What?”

“How you feel about her?”

Isabela knew she was being obtuse. Merrill didn’t deserve that. “She knows I “like” her, sweetness. I don’t need to tell her that.”

“Don’t you want to be together?”

“We _are_ together, aren’t we?”

“Not in the way you could be.”

Isabela sighed. “I don’t even know what that’d mean for us.”

They passed by the Hanged Man, the titular metal statue swinging like a pendulum in the wind, the rust and flaked off paint adding to the morbidity of the faceless visage.

“Sometimes people have relationships that are...different. It doesn’t need to fit an ideal in order for it to be important. We don’t care for each other any less just because we don’t fawn over each other like a romance novel. We show it in a lot of ways...all of them quite pleasurable,” she added, hoping the joke would make her feel less uncomfortable if she thought about that instead.

Isabela’s mind wandered back to a mere hour ago; Hawke’s lips on her breasts, her hands sliding down to count each rib, palms feeling the plane of her stomach. Most of all, the look in Hawke’s eyes when she pushed her thighs open…

...That same look she’d seen in Varric’s room earlier. Instead of the cunning, piercing blue she was used to, it was soft pools of still water, some form of longing she hadn’t seen.

A snicker from Merrill interrupted her thoughts. “You don’t fawn over each other? You flatten Hawke’s hair whenever it’s out of place.”

The sound of someone throwing up their drink from a nearby alleyway curled Isabela’s nose. “Trust me. We’re quite happy with each other as we are.”

“Oh I know _that_. But it wouldn’t change anything, would it? Wouldn’t it be nice to tell Hawke you love her?”

Something sparked inside Isabela, causing her limbs to lock up and root into the cobblestone. Love was something they never spoke of, something she made clear the night she took that strip of cloth and tied it around her arm, a trinket to plunder.

No feelings. No strings-except for the threads that made up that faded red fabric she wore.

“It’s not like that.”

The sudden stop made Merrill’s eyes go wide, forest green and full of concern. “Oh no. Did I say something wrong?”

“Of course not.” Forcing a smile, Isabela willed her legs to move again and tightened her hold on Merrill’s arm. She felt guilty at being relieved to see the alienage Vhenadahl, its branches twisting into the inky night, paint faded from growing disinterest. Merrill’s house was only a few minutes away now—hopefully the same amount of time it would take for the conversation to end.

“It’s complicated, Kitten. When you’ve been around like I have, love isn’t as simple as saying it. Sometimes it isn't even as simple as feeling it. Love changes things...even when you tell yourself it won’t.”

Merrill stared down at her feet. “Your husband wasn’t a nice man, was he?”

Isabela’s jaw tightened. “That’s a generous way of putting it.”

“Hawke isn’t like him, then.”

The knife twisted in Isabela’s gut. “No. She isn’t.”

They stopped in front of Merrill’s home, untangling their arms from each other and Merrill looking pensive. Isabela took her friend’s hands, running her thumb along the small, dirt covered scars on her fingers. “Some things are hard to leave behind, sweetness.”

Merrill intertwined her fingers with Isabela’s, looking at their joined hands. “I understand.”

Isabela smiled. “Thanks for the walk. I promise to give you all the gory details about Castillon sometime. You know my door’s always open for you.”

Merrill reached up and adjusted the flower in Isabela’s hair. “I’d like that very much.”

She waved goodbye and entered her home, leaving Isabela alone in the empty alienage square. She leaned against the wall and ran her hand over her blue bandana. Not enough have people Merrill the respect she deserved, mistaking her sunny demeanor as a sign of a simpleton. Paradoxically, they also have her a wide berth; blood magic had a reputation that even Merrill wouldn’t be free from, no matter what her personality was. Even so, Isabela knew Merrill was somewhat naive when it came to some matters. The questions came from a good place, even if she didn’t fully understand what they would do to Isabela. It was all exhausting, and the alcohol wearing off didn’t help. She looked at the dirt in her hands left behind from Merrill.

A good night’s rest was what she needed, she thought, and set her course towards the Hanged Man.


	4. The Sea Never Leaves

Isabela tapped on the table, alternating a pattern between her fingers as she watched the door to the tavern. Hawke hadn’t shown up.

Her nervousness was beginning to feel silly. It wasn’t as if Hawke came by every morning, she thought. Sometimes it was hard for her to get up, years of physical exertion slowly chipping her away. Perhaps she simply wasn’t in the mood, a valid reason in and of itself. But last night left Isabela on edge. Between her walk with Merrill and that look in Hawke’s eyes that wouldn’t leave her head, she felt like she was sailing sideways. If she could frame her visit to Hawke’s estate as wanting to make sure Castillon’s men hadn’t gone for revenge…

No. Checking up on her was out of the question. For once, Isabela was in the strange position of not wanting to look desperate. Desperation wasn’t a good look on her, she thought, pressing her teeth together.

An hour later, Isabela are both slices of toast and left the bowl of plain porridge half finished, too cold for it to be appetizing anymore. She idly scratched the surface of the table, rolling the lacquer from underneath her nails and into her fingertips. There were plenty of things to do anyhow. Namely, to inspect her new, hard earned prize.

She briefly considered leaving a message with Varric in case Hawke showed up. Thinking better of it, she left the Hanged Man without doing anything, setting her course to Castillon’s private harbour.

Mornings on the docks were one of her favourite things. It was the liminality of a day unstarted, before the sun could warm the sky, before the hungover dockworkers began working in their harbours. The spring breeze was still cool from the night and carried the smell of salt from the sea.

Years ago on some uneventful day here, Isabela told Hawke that she was going to be caught up in something big. Enough happened that she could have claimed to be right in her assessment, and no one—least of all Hawke—would argue. Hawke was the Champion of Kirkwall; _the_ Champion.

Isabela remembered Hawke’s rise was not without disdain on her end. After all, wealth changed people. Even she had been tempted by Luis’ when it was handed to her: the finery, lavashousness, and, most importantly, access to education. She had to admit it was all enjoyable. It was a glimmer of object permanence in a situation she loathed, something to fill the void where she saw no escape.

A gilded cage was still a cage. She grew to hate Luis’ wealth and what it stood for, how it made the acquisition of his greatest prize—her—another toy in his collection of objects to admire. She believed that Hawke, for as much she insisted status wouldn’t change her, could only fight the inevitable for so long.

Miraculously, not much did change. Most of Hawke’s indulgences were spent on creature comforts, good food and clothing made of soft materials Isabela was fond of touching. She recalled how excited Hawke was when she pulled small vials out of her pack, filled with red, orange, and yellow.

_“What’s all this?” Isabela asked._

_Hawke blinked. “You made me promise to buy some spices when I’m rich. To flavour my bland Fereldan food.” Her smile turned self conscious. Isabela had forgotten._

She wasn’t sure why she made Hawke promise her that. Maybe it was a last minute attempt to make sure she had something to keep her grounded. Maybe it even worked. Whatever happened, Isabela was grateful that the Hawke she knew didn’t turn into a person made unrecognizable by a sudden windfall of fortune. Small things were different, of course. Living in a gigantic ancestral home was sure to do that. Yet she still kept the same company, came around to Lowtown, and took jobs as if nothing happened. That still never stopped her rise to nobility and fame, and the accolades both gave.

All of that couldn’t keep Hawke safe.

Isabela had been in storms both literal and metaphorical to know when they were approaching. Things were culminating to an end in Kirkwall, and it didn’t take a soothsayer to see it. Rising tensions, paranoia and distrust, all of the warnings that were easier to ignore as if saying nothing would make them disappear. But it was all an inevitability, and Hawke would be swept up in it despite—or because—of who she was.

Three years ago, Isabela left Hawke when she needed her most. She was not going to make the same mistake again.

She opened the rusted metal door to Castillon’s Landing.

The warehouse was emptier than Isabela remembered. Castillon and what was left of his crew had likely tried to clear out as many goods as they could before morning, which wasn’t much. She smiled. Not only did she have a new ship, but she had a considerable amount of cargo waiting to be turned for profit. Varric would happily handle the business side of things there. Whoever the original recipients were, Isabela was sure they could live without a shipment—not that she was particularly sympathetic.

The ship itself was the most interesting part.

Nothing could replace the _Siren’s Call_ , but she knew it was more out of sentimentality that she felt that way. Castillon’s ship was the fastest in the Felicisima Armada, built to outmaneuver anything and everyone who would dare chase it. Its masts towered into the morning sky, the white squared sails billowing in the breeze and beckoning Isabela to board. She didn’t want to keep her waiting any longer.

Her heart raced in excitement as her boots hit the deck. Castillon was a lot of things, but negligent wasn’t one of them. The deck was immaculate, swabbed to a sheen, brass affixes polished to perfection. Her hand grazed over the wood, as if feeling for a heartbeat or drawn breath from a living creature. She followed the rail up the steps and to the helm of the ship, the elevated position giving her full view of the vessel she would soon command.

The lathed spokes of the wheel invited Isabela to touch them. She gently slid her fingertips over them before grasping the smooth wood, pulling on it to feel the ship’s give. It responded under her ministrations, sensing the vibrations through her as an extension of her own body. Muscle memory would soon make them one being, knowing every peculiarity and moving with her through the sea.

This is where she belonged. She felt whole, her body a decanter to be filled by the will of the water. The waves called in the distance, far away from Kirkwall and into horizons unknown. Tightening her grip, she closed her eyes and let the other four senses take priority. The call of birds, the wood in her palms, the smell of salt so strong she could taste it. It was all there. Homecoming.

Reluctantly, she released the wheel. There was still more to see.

When Isabela entered the ship proper she reflexively shuddered. Expensive Antivan cologne mixed unfavourably with cheap aftershave. A sign that Castillon and his crew had been there recently. Judging by the bare nails in the compartments, they took the most valuable display pieces with them before Isabela could claim them for herself. A pity. But there would be a few things both onboard and in the warehouse to make her more money than she had since the _Siren’s Call_ sunk.

A great deal of it would have to go into replacing the distasteful decoration choices Castillon made. To have a beautiful ship only to cover it in mustard satin was an insult Isabela wouldn’t stand for. All of it needed to be redecorated; no trace of Castillon could remain if this was truly to be her ship. Something else for her to do, she supposed. Bundles of incense would be a good start.

The Captain’s Cabin was for last, both out of excitement for seeing her new quarters, and dread. It would take work until it felt like it belonged to her. Like the rest of the ship, it was audaciously decorated, more satin and gaudy decor abound. The bed, while comfortable and graced with more throw pillows than an Orlesian couch, would have to be tossed somewhere. No way was Isabela going to sleep in Castillon’s bed. Luckily, the rest of the furniture was good enough for her tastes, solid oak dressers complete with a vanity set. The desk from her room would be coming with her. A piece of something familiar.

She sighed and sat on a velvet-backed rococo chair. The hull of the ship creaked as it rocked in the shallow water, the sound unmuffled by its emptiness. Eventually the ship would be alive with activity. Laughter and song would fill each room, the heat of bodies packed too tightly warming the air. It would be familiar and different, a warped dream version of everything she was used to. The songs and collective timbres of voices would be an echo of the original imprint in her mind.

She wondered what trinkets her new crew would carry, a result of superstitions and wishes of luck to carry around in their pocket. When submitting to an unknown force like the sea, it was comforting to believe that things worked out or didn’t because of the things they carried. But she’d seen it for all it was, from her charlatan mother and with enough time on the sea. Luck existed in a colloquial sense, nothing more. There was only her and what she did.

And maybe that’s what made everything harder to bare. Not too far from where she sat, her old crew lay in their watery graves at the bottom of the Wounded Coast, forgotten by everyone but her. All the favours and carved idols couldn’t have saved them. A series of events both big and small is what got them gunned down, a payment for their loyalty and for her mistake.

That was something she couldn’t blame on bad luck. Everyone she met had to answer for her actions at one point or another. Kirkwall itself bore the wounds she vicariously dealt it, broken buildings and abandoned, burnt wood that was too much trouble to salvage. The worst was on Hawke’s body—selfishly, perhaps. It was one person out of many. But the scar across her neck from her duel with the Arishok was something she still avoided touching out of shame.

Nothing could bring her crew—her friends—back, and nothing would rebuild Kirkwall. She couldn’t erase three years of absence while Hawke was left to pick up her pieces. Guilt ate away at her until there was no more to feast on, when there was nothing left to do but move on. But she could only run away from the past for so long until the trail of bodies caught up with her.

 _If you’re looking to sail off…_ __  
  
A joke and a grin to mask the residual hurt.

Suddenly, she realized what the look in Hawke’s eyes meant. It was the ship.

Hawke would never tell her this, of course. She knew Isabela valued her freedom and would never say anything that looked like she was asking her to stay. It was sweet and unreasonable. Isabela would be hurt if Hawke didn’t feel some sort of sadness that she was leaving. They were….whatever they were, after all.

The strangest was that Isabela didn’t feel the incessant itch to sail away like before. Years ago, she imagined hoisting the anchor and sailing off without a second thought, leaving Kirkwall and its problems for good. Now she saw it all as something in the future. The ship could wait. The sea would never leave.

It would all take time anyways, she reasoned. The ship still needed to be reupholstered and redecorated, and she needed a reliable crew. Maybe Fenris would even agree to come along. It wasn’t like there was much for him to do anymore besides mope around in his mansion.

A thought wormed its way in again. She let it slide by, not wanting to entertain it. Much like Hawke would never ask Isabela to stay, Isabela could never ask Hawke to leave. Kirkwall was her home, something she made for herself with blood on her hands and sacrifices made. It was inevitable they would part ways, whether Isabela took off in the night or not. Hawke couldn’t face Isabela because to her, the end was in sight. The ship was just a sign.

Clenching her fists, Isabela stood up and marched out of the Captain’s Cabin to top deck.

Isabela got as far as the warehouse doors before she stopped herself. This was an overreaction. Most of all, it was uncharacteristic of her to be this concerned. It wasn’t even noon and already Isabela was jumping to conclusions about how Hawke felt. Besides, if Hawke needed space, who was she to barge in and demand answers from her?

Moving again, she took to the cracked streets of the docks, now crowded with sailors, workers, and the occasional clergy member making their rounds. Things would make sense soon enough. Hawke would come around. She always did.


	5. Be Safe, Naishe

It took three days for Hawke to show up.

She came through the door with her head bowed and slumped down beside Isabela. Wordlessly she unwrapped the parcel of butcher paper: fresh green onions, mushrooms, and quail eggs, all waiting to be added into their porridge.

“Aw. No pork today?” Isabela asked.

“No.”

Hawke added the contents, stirring them lazily and leaving her spoon inside the bowl. Instead she reached for a piece of toast, not setting it down for Isabela to take a bite out of later.

“I made some tea. Ran out of my favourite, but I know corn tea’s fine with you, so…” she stopped when she got a look at Hawke’s face. She looked exhausted, and she hadn’t bothered to reapply the mysterious red smear she painted on her face every morning, leaving it faded and smudged.

“Something wrong?”

The complete change of emotion was frightening, as if hearing Isabela ask her was a magical spell. Hawke snapped up, smiled and took her cup of tea to her chest. “Just tired.”

Isabela tried not to frown. “What trouble have you gotten into this time?”

“Nothing. Laying around. You know me,” Hawke said.

Isabela almost told Hawke about her ship but thought better of it. “What’s on the docket today?”

“Funny, I was going to ask you that.”

Heaping a spoonful of porridge into her mouth, Isabela chewed thoughtfully as she considered. “No jobs?”

“None.”

“Any shopping?”

Hawke shrugged. “No, but you always find something to get. We could do that?”

“You’re out of pork. It’ll be a practical use of time.”

“Us doing something practical? Sounds daring.”

“Reckless and bold.” She slid the bowl of porridge over to Hawke, who took as many mushrooms as she could before taking a bite.

Shades of green caught Isabela’s eye in the doorway. Her stomach sunk. Merrill had decided to visit. If she came around for the reason Isabela thought, this was going to make for an awkward morning.

“Merrill!” Hawke said.

“Kitten.”

“You’re both here! Of course you are,” Merrill said, taking a spot across from the two of them. “That looks good,” she indicated to the porridge.

“Feel free to have some. I’m not too hungry right now,” Hawke said. “Use my spoon on the left.”

Merrill daintily picked up the spoon, wiggling back and forth as she ate. Isabela wondered if the elf had anything to eat over the past few days. Hawke mentioned that the eluvian had taken all of her attention as of late, causing Varric to intervene and buy her groceries so the poor girl didn’t starve to death.

“How’s your flower, Hawke?”

Hawke tapped her fingers on her mug. “Merrill came by and gave me this blue flower she picked—”

“She showed me the other night,” Isabela said.

“Oh.” Hawke turned back to Merrill. “It’s alive and well. I put it on my desk so it’s the first thing I see when I wake up.”

“See sweetness? I told you she’d love it,” Isabela said.

Merrill beamed. “You also told me you’d tell me about Castillon!”

“I did say that, didn’t I?” Isabela looked at Hawke for a reaction. If she felt a type of way about it, she didn’t show it.

“A man named Velasco worked for Castillon, and we had to find out where he was from him. I had to think of a plan to lure him out of hiding.”

“You mean I thought of a plan. As I recall, yours involved a game of riddles and having one of the questions be “where’s your boss”,” Hawke said.

“Fine. Hawke thought of a plan. I was going to be bait. She’d go to Velasco and act like she was giving me up for coin, while I pretended to be shocked and betrayed. I said she needed to make it look convincing.”

“An incredible performance. I’m thinking if this whole Champion thing doesn’t work out, I can be an actor.”

“You’re dramatic enough for it,” Isabela said, flicking Hawke on the arm.

“Ow!”  
  
Rolling her eyes, Isabela rubbed on the sore spot. “Our debut acting careers were a success, because Velasco ate it up. Hauled me right out of the Rose to Castillon’s harbour, kicking and screaming.”

“How did Hawke find you?” Merrill asked.

“A trail of breadcrumbs. Literally.”

“You hid an entire loaf of bread on you?”

“Not an entire loaf, Kitten. Enough I could hide in my gloves.”

“Bready hands doesn’t sound fun,” Merrill giggled.

“It wasn’t! It’s a good thing everyone found me, or I would’ve endured that for nothing.”

“And that’s to say nothing of the fact you would’ve been taken by Castillon.” Hawke said.

“I would’ve thought of something.”

“Are you sure? Remember what your original scheme was?”

“I’m more in the moment. A quicker thinker on my toes.”

“Uh huh.”

Merrill drank some of Isabela’s tea. “What happened next?”

“How else do things go when it’s us? As soon as Hawke, Aveline, and Varric came into the warehouse, it became a big fight. Must’ve been his whole crew against us.”

Fighting with Hawke was a performance in its own right. The two played off of each other like dance partners, juggling between confused opponents with subtle gestures and expressions. Hawke was a storm of flashing blades, ducking and weaving with practiced soldier’s grace. When it was over, Isabela almost felt sad. It was exhilarating, a thrill that got the blood pumping in her ears and focused in ways not much else could.

“Where was Castillon?” asked Merrill.

“Not there—yet. We had time to look around. Good thing we did!” Isabela smiled. “He decided to leave some important documents laying around.”

“What was it?” Merrill said, eyes wide.

“Proof he’s a slaver. The Free Marches don’t take kindly to that.”

“Oh! He was in big trouble then.”

“You have no idea what they do to slavers, sweet thing. He was properly fucked.” She shuddered. “Just then, he shows up. I had the upper hand in a way he couldn’t’ve ever imagined.”

The look on Castillons face when she showed him the documents was something she would get painted and framed if she could. That the bastard was crawling in his skin the way he did to her was better than bringing a blade to his throat.

“So I told him, either I turn these in and he gets the noose, or he gives me his ship and leaves me alone forever. He barely had to think about it.”

“Couldn’t you have killed him and taken his ship?” Merrill asked.

“Of course not! How else is he supposed to tell everyone I won?”

“Oh! Very smart then.”

“I thought so too.” Isabela looked at Hawke who was fascinated by her hands.

“Just like that, it was over. Castillon’s gone and I have a brand new ship. It couldn’t have ended any better.”

“Are you going to be leaving soon?”

Isabela bit her lip. The same look was in Hawke’s eyes again.

“I don’t think so. You’ll see me for a while yet.” She smiled at Hawke, who returned it with less enthusiasm than Isabela was hoping for.

“I’m glad. I like it when you’re around,” Merrill said.

“And I like being around, Kitten.” Though she was addressing Merrill, she didn’t stop looking at Hawke, who had gone back to staring at her hands.

 

* * *

 

 

It was a cool day for shopping. The wind was just the way Isabela liked it, refreshing and light, reminding her of what it felt like to stand on the top deck of her ship, that same wind in her sails. Hawke wore a black, silk lined cloak on top of her deep purple doublet, complete with light green piping. Isabela donned a faded navy blue coat with gold tassled epaulettes, even wearing breeches for the occasion. Despite their dress, they still looked strange in the mosaic of people in Hightown, their bearing exuding a different type of confidence. Isabela knew she stood out more often than not; there weren’t a lot of others from Rivain in Kirkwall, let alone in Hightown. She smirked at the people around her. Fine by her.

The usual coy smile finally made its way onto Hawke’s face after her previous dour mood. The wrapped pieces of pork tucked under her arm was likely the main contributor.

“Figures all it took was a bundle of meat to make you come around,” Isabela said.

“What can I say? I have simple needs.”

“Buying expensive meat in Hightown hardly qualifies.”

“As fun as it is to gamble with the stuff in Lowtown, I think I’ll pass.”

Isabela hummed, pushing her way through the slow moving Hightown crowd, feeling disapproving glares burrowing into the back of her head. That was the thing with nobles; they moved like they had nowhere else to be. Probably because they didn’t.

People lined the well-spaced stalls of the market, chatting up the vendors and catching up on daily affairs. It was a far cry from Lowtown. Less yelling and stabbing. The air smelled of flowers and perfume. They passed by a table of sweetmeats, the colourful swirls of confectionary laid out on metal platters. Isabela swiped a tin of sugarplums, waiting until she was out of eyesight to open it. She delicately placed a ball of the sugary treat on her tongue, letting it melt in her mouth. Childhood memories came rushing back, the flavour nostalgic. She used to roam the Llomeryn markets, a job to do while her mother was busy ripping off her latest client. She’d steal small things that could fit in her pockets: fruit, toys, and to her mother’s delight, coin purses off of careless passerbys who weren’t smart enough to watch their belts.

There was a man—Tristan—who sold sweets and mesmerizing pinwheels of blue, red, and yellow. He’d often inquire as to why Isabela was alone, she’d shrug and mumble an answer. He’d give her gumdrops and bonbons, not knowing that Isabela already pocketed a few loose pieces when he wasn’t looking.

_“It’s not safe for a child to run around here,” he’d say, frowning under his dark, peppered beard. “Be safe, Naishe.”_

Years later when she was taken from Rivain, she realized he wasn’t as oblivious to her thievery as she thought. The feigned ignorance was out of pity, something Isabela almost hated him for.

The already aging man was likely dead by now.

Hearing the opening of the tin, Hawke reached out her hand for a piece, throwing it up in the air and catching it with her mouth. She smiled, proud of herself, happily savouring the flavour as she scanned the scenery around her.

Hightown was the only place in Kirkwall that looked intentional. Lowtown dwellings were haphazardly carved out of the black stone of the mountains, former slave quarters that old Tevinters couldn’t care less about, streets meaninglessly meandering in a confusing maze. Hightown was assembled and planned. Towering estates and large gardens gave a false sense of security, blinding its inhabitants from what went on below them. Isabela supposed that was the point. No one wanted squalor within their eyesight.

Colourful swathes of fabric caught Isabela’s eyes in the corner of the market, the different materials standing out against the other stalls. She grabbed Hawke’s forearm and pulled her over. Isabela immediately ran her hands through the velvets and cottons, feeling the different textures in her hands. A striking brocade got her attention: a pink, white, seafoam, and gold pattern that created flowers and arched shapes against a maroon background. She traced along the patterns, feeling the bumps and raises of the silk thread on her fingertips. She imaged what her new ship would look like with the brocade backing the chairs and the bedspread. It could also make fine curtains, the gold accents catching the light of the sunlit sea.

“What do you think?” Isabela asked.

“Gorgeous. Loud, but very nice,” Hawke said.

The shopkeeper looked at Isabela and Hawke with a disapproving glare. She was about to chastise her for touching the fabric until she recognized who Hawke was.

“Champion!” Her accent was thick, Orlesian. She patted her white, coiffed hair.

Hawke scratched her nose. “That’s me.”

“What are we interested in today?”

Hawke placed her free hand in the pocket of her trousers, her cloak falling behind her shoulder like a wayward prince. “Whatever my friend wants.”

The shopkeeper looked at Isabela again, trying and failing to mask her doubt, and went back to Hawke. “This is one of our more...pricey materials,” she said, still not addressing Isabela directly. “Worth every gold coin.”

“I’m sure it is. But you should talk to her about it. I’m just moral support.” Hawke’s flitted voice began to sharpen.

“How much?” Isabela made a point to let her hand linger on the brocade.

“Two gold pieces per meter,” she said. A challenge.

About what Isabela expected. It would add up quickly, but she wasn’t going to use the brocade on every piece furniture on the ship. When she sold the rest of Castillon’s goods, she would easily be able to afford it. For now, she mentally took note of how much she had in her coin purse.

“Right. I’ll take the meter for now. To see if it suits what I had in mind.”

“Two gold pieces,” the vendor repeated, and looked at Hawke again, clearly expecting her to have final say. Hawke’s eyes narrowed and her lower lip curled.

Isabela grabbed the gold into her hand, cascading it down her fingers and flipping it onto the table. Normally she would aggressively bargain down prices of things she actually bought, but she was adamant on making a point she felt angry she even had to make. Sometimes pride was worth the price.

The lady picked the coins off of the table, feeling the gold in her palm.

“What? Do you want to bite it too?” Isabela said.

Reluctantly, the Orlesian turned to the bolt of fabric behind her, grabbing her measuring tape and making a show of carefully figuring out the exact length. Hawke grinned at Isabela while the shopkeeper’s back was turned.

“May I ask what you plan on using this for?” the shopkeeper asked, folding the brocade and handing it to Isabela.

“Upholstery. A hankerchief. Something to wipe my ass. Whatever I find a use for it.” She pulled on the lapels of her coat. “And you’ll be in Kirkwall for a while?”

“A few more weeks.”

“Good. I’ll be back.” She swung the brocade over her shoulder. “Though I’m not sure you deserve it.”

Masking her annoyance and turning on her heel, she walked off gripping the fabric tightly, Hawke jogging behind her to keep up.

“A real piece of work, that one. She barely looked at you.” Isabela slowed her pace, and Hawke reached out to feel the brocade. “What _are_ you using it for?”

“I was flexing my proverbial muscles. As if I’m going to take shit from some pasty Orlesian shopkeep.”

“I can’t blame you for that,” Hawke shook her head. “I’d do the same.”

Isabela bared her teeth. “If you weren’t the Champion, she wouldn’t have given you the time of day either. It helps you at least look like a noble.”

“And you look like a pirate ready to set sail at any moment.”

Isabela stopped dead in her tracks, her toes curling like claws in her boots.

“Problem?” Hawke said.

“Nothing.” She smiled at Hawke and almost went to fix her hair. “You like when I’m dressed up like this.”

“I didn’t say it was a bad thing,” she said, playing with a piece of Isabela’s large necklace.

“What now?” Isabela asked.

Hawke lifted her pork comically, like a precious newborn. “I should probably put this away before it becomes Lowtown quality.”


	6. Habit

Isabela sat with her legs crossed at the kitchen table, the brocade draped over the back of her chair. She idly twirled one of her many knives as Hawke cut a pile of peeled potatoes and hummed a tune to herself, comfortably lost in the motions of her work. Outside of reading whatever Isabela recommended to her, cooking was one of the few things Hawke did as a hobby. There was always something else for her to do.

She wore her mother’s apron and poured over her recipe book, the faded ink written in generations of different handwriting. It was one of the few treasures found in the cellar of her estate, and one of the few things about Hawke’s storied family history that she could partake in. Adding the potatoes onto a cooking sheet for the oven, she wiped off the cutting knife on a clean rag.

“Who made this one?” Isabela asked, nodding towards the open book.

“My grandmother. She had terrible penmanship.” The afterthought was said as if it was the most defining character trait about her. For Hawke, it might’ve well been the only one she could see for herself that wasn’t told by somebody else.

“Worse than yours?”

Hawke smiled and drizzled oil over the potatoes. “I never said mine was good either.”

“Ever think you’ll add to it?”

Hawke began slicing an onion bigger than her fist. “No one’s around to read it exactly.”

“Ah.” Isabela continued twirling her knife. “Theoretically then. What would you put?”

“Well,” Hawke said, placing the sliced onion in a bowl. “What do you think? You’ve had more of my food than anyone.”

“It has to be a classic. That’s how these things work, right?”

Chuckling, Hawke peeled away at some garlic. “And what’s the Hawke classic to you?”

“You made this meat pie before. Whatever happened to that?”

Hawke groaned. “I tried three types of shells for that to work out. Too much work.”

“The fish soup then. With the green beans and water spinach?”

“Really? You like that?”

“Sure. It’s simple, satisfying...good for when I’m freezing my tits off.”

“So three out of four seasons?”

“Exactly.”

“If I’d known you liked it so much, I would’ve made it more often.”

The rhythmic staccato of the knife onto the cutting board filled the room.

“You’re going to miss my cooking, you know.”

Isabela was glad Hawke’s back was turned. “I have plenty of time to enjoy it.”

The chopping increased. “When do you think you’ll go?”

“After something big happens. Not even then, maybe. There’s a lot of variables.”

“And what if that “big thing” you’ve been talking about never happens?”

Gritting her teeth, Isabela uncrossed her legs and stopped playing with her knife. “Is this going to be a problem, Hawke?”

“What?”

“The ship. You’ve been doing that thing you do. The “I’m going to say this as a joke or subtly bring it up to be passive aggressive about it” thing.”

A shadow fell on Hawke’s face when she turned to look at Isabela, her own knife still in hand. “They’re just jokes, ‘Bela.”

“Are they? Now you’re hounding me about it when I told you I’m not leaving.”

“I don’t think it’s outlandish for wanting to know. I was just curious.”

“Is that it?”

“Yes.”

Isabela stared at Hawke with an edge sharper than the knives they both held. “You knew I was going to leave eventually. If it was going to be an issue…” the sentence lodged itself into her throat.

“It wasn't and still isn’t. But the first time was a bit unexpected, don’t you think?” Hawke looked surprised at her own words, biting her lip as soon as she said them.

“Go on.”

Hawke sniffed. “It isn’t an issue, ‘Bela. I was just wondering,” she said again.

“I gave you an answer.”

“For once.”

“Apparently it doesn’t matter if you’re not taking it.”

Hawke rubbed her eyes with the heel of her palm. “Sorry. Let’s drop it. You know that saying, don’t go to bed angry? I say don’t have dinner angry.” A weak laugh.

Sheathing her knife into a hidden pocket in her jacket, Isabela stood to excuse herself. “I’m using the privy.”

* * *

 

The cold water of the washbasin did nothing to shake Isabela out of the sickening feeling swirling at the front of her head. Droplets of water dropped into the bowl from her drenched face, the watery plink pounding on her ears like breaking glass.

It had been the ship after all.

Isabela was willing to accept that residual guilt had her reading too much into things, the type of paranoia that made every detail hyper focused and too clear. But she knew Hawke better than that. She just chose to ignore where all of the signs pointed.

It was inevitable that Isabela would sail off into the eastern seas, just as it was inevitable that Hawke would remain in Kirkwall. Now that the ship was there in front of them, it meant confronting the reality that they would part.

Sighing into her reflection, Isabela turned to leave back to the kitchen, stopping short at the doorway.

Hawke’s broad, bony shoulders hunched over the stovetop, her knuckles bulging in a death grip on the bottle of white wine she was using for the pork. She stood still, a statue.

A sign of life came when she exhaled a shaky breath, her other hand tightening into a fist.

Isabela only saw Hawke beside herself once. It was the night of her mother’s murder, where she stepped into Hawke’s bedroom, awkward and offering substanceless platitudes that she knew would never be the right salve for the wound in her heart.

It was the right thing to do; to be there, to say anything. Now, seeing Hawke bring the bottle to her mouth, it felt like she was intruding with no words to legitimize her presence.

Many days were spent eating together, bathing together, waking up together. For all of that, she’d never seen the type of vulnerability being alone brought form Hawke, free of the posturing and deflection.

The red cloth felt tight on Isabela’s bicep.

“How long have you been standing there?”

Isabela froze. “Just got here.”

When Hawke didn’t move, Isabela walked over to her, grabbing the wine and taking a drink for herself. They both stared at the ceramic tiled floor.

“Food smells good,” Isabela said.

Garlic, cooked onions, and rosemary enveloped the kitchen, a tease for the meal that awaited them. But it elicited no real reaction from her, a passive scent like Lowtown air.

Squaring her shoulders, Hawke turned back to the pans on the stove. “Lots of mushrooms.”

“Good. I...good.” Isabela sat in her chair and put her coat on. She fiddled with the knife once more, occasionally looking up at Hawke who had again poured herself into finishing her cooking.

The sound of plates hitting the table jolted Isabela out of her trance. As promised, the pork was garnished with a healthy helping of mushrooms and buttery wine sauce, served with roasted potatoes. Hawke guzzled more wine before taking a bite.

The meal would have been delicious to Isabela on any other night. The meat was tender, potatoes crisped to perfection, and sauce the perfect thickness. She might as well have been eating ashes, the food coating her tongue and hard to swallow.

“Your grandmother might’ve not had good handwriting, but her recipe seems sound,” Isabela said, washing the meat down with wine.

“Ha.” Hawke smothered her potatoes in the sauce. The pork lay untouched. She always left the best part for last.

The clanking of cutlery were the only noises that indicated people were in the kitchen at all.

“Maker, we’re not good at this, are we?”

Isabela jabbed her pork. “No.”

“I think this is the first time we seriously fought about anything,” Hawke said, matter of fact, a positive to be gleaned.

“Maybe it shouldn’t’ve been.”

Hawke frowned. “What do you mean?”

Setting her fork down, Isabela pushed her plate back and leaned on her elbows, biting at the back of the stud under her lip. “I mean maybe we should bring this shit up more often. Before it gets like this.”

“This?”

“Don’t play dumb.”

“Let’s say I am.”

“You’re not. I’m not spelling it out for you.”

Hawke stared past Isabela. “Don’t you think that’s a bit rich coming from you? Not bringing shit up?”

“I’m not the only one who likes to dodge things.”

“I’m not the one who left for three years without so much as a word. You want to mention avoiding things? Look in a mirror.”

There it was.

It was Isabela expected to hear one day, and part of her eagerly waited for it. It was a righteous pain, repentant on the whipping pole to atone for a sin she’d committed.

“You know why I had to leave,” was all Isabela could muster.

“I’m not even sure you knew.” Hawke shook her head. “ _It was always about you_.” The words Isabela said on the night she left were thrown back in her face like embers. “What was that supposed to mean? What was I supposed to take away from that?”

“I don’t know.”

“No?”

“I don’t, Hawke.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it.”

“What do you want to hear from me? A confession? That I was secretly in love with you and ran away because I couldn’t handle it? Because that’s not what that was. I panicked and said something stupid. You almost died, Hawke.”

“Well, I didn’t,” Hawke mumbled.

“Do you know how fucking awful it was to see you like that?” She couldn’t stop herself from looking at the scar across Hawke’s neck, trying and failing not to remember that night. The blood, Hawke’s eyes unfocused and panicked. She still had her damn smirk-but it was wrong, delirious and defiant like someone who knew they were dying and laughing at the injustice of it all.

Isabela wrapped her arms around herself. “What if that was me? How would you feel?”

Hawke opened her mouth to speak but said nothing, looking away instead.

The ticking of the small wall clock counted their moments of silence. Isabela lowered her voice. “If you’re only around because you’re waiting for me to say something, then you’re going to be very, very disappointed.”

Hawke’s nostrils flared, her voice raspy. “If that’s what you think I’m doing, then why are you still here?”

“Because I care about what happens to you, believe it or not.”

“You did a great job of showing it.”

Isabela hung her head. She didn't have a rebuttal for that.

“I don’t know what to believe,” Hawke said. “Half the things you tell me about yourself is a lie of omission.”

“How is that relevant? Or are we airing out all our grievances while we’re at it?”

“It’s completely relevant.”

Isabela was incredulous. “You honestly think I don’t care?”

“I didn’t-”

“Then why are _you_ still around me if that’s what _you_ think?”

“I can’t just-” Hawke inhaled and tongued the back of her teeth. “I’m trying to believe you’re not going to just be gone one day. But...I don’t know if I’m just being stupid. It feels like I don’t know you sometimes. That’s all I’m saying.”

“Oh, that’s all? And you want me to...what? Reveal my tragic backstory so you can trust me? You know why I can't talk about it. I don’t owe that to you.”

“It's not that. It's everything, even little things. You have to give me something to work with-”

“I don’t have to give you _shit!”_

The chair slammed backwards onto the stone floor with a crash as Isabela leaped up, the brocade falling along with it. Hawke stood up to meet her, bumping into the table hard enough for her plate to fall, shattering onto the floor.

Pup barked and bounded into the kitchen with frightening speed, hackles raised and teeth bared, ready to protect his master. Isabela stepped back when he growled, low, guttural, and threatening. Hound and master glared at her, combatants locked in a standstill before swords clashed. For all the times Isabela saw Hawke’s murderous gaze, it was never directed at her. It clawed at her heart, the calm blue now a torrent of so many emotions Isabela thought she'd drown in it.

“Back off. It’s fine,” Hawke hissed to her dog. He reluctantly pulled back, standing behind her and watching Isabela closely, unwilling to leave Hawke's side.  
  
Hawke exhaled, her laughter grating sheet metal. “What are we doing, Isabela?”

“You tell me, _Marian._ ”

The storm subsided in Hawke’s eyes with a vacant blink. Her shoulders dropped. “I don’t know what any of this is anymore.

Isabela sighed. “Neither do I.”

Hawke frowned at the broken plate, absently kicking over the pieces, the ceramic scrapping against the tiles. “Are we around each other because it’s just…”

“Habit?”

Hawke nodded, not taking her eyes off of the plate.

“If that’s what this is,” Isabela said carefully, looking back at the spilled brocade on the floor, “is it so bad?”

It took too long than Isabela liked for an answer. Hawke looked up at her, head still bowed. “No. It isn’t," she said finally. "I just didn’t think it would turn into something...complicated, I suppose.”

Isabela bit her tongue. They passed that point a long time ago.

Running her hand through her hair, Hawke looked at the ceiling. “Maker, we’re acting like one fight is the end of the world.”

“We buried everything then dug them out with gaatlok. We should have used a shovel.”

Hawke chuckled. “We obviously have some things to work out.”

Isabela nodded slowly. “But not now. Let’s just...we need to calm down. Then we’ll talk.”

“Maybe with less things thrown around,” Hawke said, her voice light, Isabela smiled uncomfortably.

“Ideally.”

She bent down to help Hawke pick up the pieces of the plate and righted her chair, slowly sliding it under the table as Hawke wiped the rest of the mess off of the floor. She winced when she stood up, watching Pup eat the food off the tile, licking up whatever Hawke missed.

Pup nuzzled under Isabela’s hand and brushed up against her, apparently wanting to forget about what happened as much as she did. In his mouth was the brocade, offering it up to her. She patted his head curtly, lips curled and turning white as she gently took the fabric from his mouth.

Hawke and Isabela didn’t speak to each other again. The only communication was a small smile of thanks from Hawke before Isabela left into the night, brocade crumpled in her fist.


	7. Things Change

Isabela accepted she wouldn’t be sleeping that night.

Dipping her quill into the inkwell, she added to her meaningless to-do list of things she needed for her ship, the act more cathartic than the practicality it served. Among them were potential crew members, rations and fabrics, and all of their associated costs. It quickly became daunting, and she became less relaxed the more she wrote.

The gnawing at her stomach didn’t go away even after she took to cleaning her room. Hours crawled by as she reorganized and gathered up months worth of mess. She was burning midnight oil, the orange glow of lantern light flickering across the brown stone walls as she worked. Hawke could always tell when Isabela was feeling off when she turned to cleaning something. She wondered what she’d say now if she could see her.

Getting on the floor, she started scooping things out from under her bed; empty bottles, clothes she forgot she owned. Isabela froze when her hand brushed on something familiar.

She slid it out, seeing the dirty white cover of the book she took from Hawke, thumbing the the yellowed pages and finding comfort in the columns the lines of poetry made across the paper. It was one of her favourites. The poetry was unconventional, blunt while still weaving a collection of words that Isabela found interesting and beautiful. Holding it to her chest, she fell back onto the pile of clothes on the floor and snapped her eyes shut.

It didn’t help a good portion of the belongings Isabela picked up off the floor were Hawke’s. Some of her own possessions were missing as well-at Hawke’s house. It was all so domestic, leaving their things at each other’s homes. Logic told her that she should be afraid of how comfortable she’d gotten with Hawke. To her even greater chagrin, Isabela realized she didn’t feel that way. Something was changing.

_No. Things already changed._

Too much had happened to carry on the way they used to. In some ways it seemed like they did, which was why she hadn’t seen it before. Not a week after Isabela returned had they slept and woken up together, falling into old routine. They talked the same way they used to, topics of varying importance, but never of what happened over those years. It was a wound none of them wanted to reopen, desperate to move on and have everything be okay again. Easy. Normal.

And that was just the problem. It was neither of those things.

It wasn’t just a bit of fun anymore. It was worrying in ways she never had for someone else, the fear of losing Hawke different in a way it shouldn’t have been. It went beyond mortality. The roots Hawke planted inside her were deep, painful to endure but too painful to rip out.

A gentle knock on the door shook Isabela. She looked out the window to see bright orange and pink creeping around the edges of the night sky. It was morning.

“It’s open.”

Hawke entered slowly, looking as tired as Isabela felt. She didn’t expect to see her so soon.

Her knees cracked when she laid beside Isabela on the floor, a meek smile when she noticed the book on her chest. “You found it.”

“I did.” Isabela put it between them. “Take it.”

“Keep it. You’ve gotten more use out of it than I ever did.”

Isabela turned her head to get a better look at Hawke. “Must’ve slept as well as I did.”

“If that means “not at all”, then yes.” Heavy bags formed under her eyes, making her look sick. Isabela almost wanted to send Hawke away, to tell her she hadn’t given enough thought to everything. But time wouldn’t make things any more clear. That’s how it was with them: push everything aside with the lie that they could deal with it later. And she learned the hard way that Hawke was worth more than setting aside.

“So. How do we start this?” Hawke asked.

“I was hoping you’d have an idea.” Isabela sighed. “We’re terrible at this.”

“Maybe that’s the problem.”

“What? That we sort of…”

“Don’t say anything? Let it all fester around?”

“That.” Isabela took a breath. It was now or never. “What’s really been going on, Hawke?”

“Let’s get off the floor first.”

Isabela acquiesced, hoisting herself onto the bed and beside Hawke, watching her fidget nervously before she exhaled, and began to speak.

“I meant it when I said the ship wasn’t a problem. I want you to be happy. But I feel wrong for being…” She trailed off.

“I don’t expect you to not feel anything about me going. But I can’t be here forever.”

“I don’t expect you to.”

“It’s not like it’ll be goodbye forever. I’m...going to miss you too.”

Isabela thought her admission would evoke a happier reaction from Hawke. Instead her brow fell, the weight of the inevitable future worn on her face.

“It's not just that. I thought I was over you leaving. I really did. We talked about it before and it was fine-or I thought it was. Those three days...I avoided you because I thought if I didn’t see you I could get over it again. It was stupid.” She gave a short laugh.

“We didn't really talk about it. Not like this,” Isabela said.

Hawke’s fingertips dug into her thigh, avoiding eye contact with Isabela and staring at the storage trunk. “I would never ask for more than you were willing to give. You know that, right?”

Isabela hesitated. “Does that make you happy?”

“I’m not pining away after you, if that’s what you mean. I’m happy with what we are.” Hawke sighed. “I didn’t want you to think I was asking you to stay. That I misunderstood what we are.”

“What I said that night… it confused things.”

“It was intense for both of us.” She absentmindedly touched the scar on her neck. “But it wasn't just that. It's that I woke up one morning and you were gone. I had to recover from the fight without you. I couldn't talk-I couldn't move. My mother's ashes were barely cold. Bethany's in the fucking…” she grit her teeth and tried to catch her breath. “...so, naturally, I start thinking about father and Carver. How they can't be here either. I guess you can say I have some mild abandonment issues,” she mused, her efforts to conceal her grief faltering.

“Hawke…”

She was so quiet that Isabela strained to hear. “I never felt so alone in my life.”

Guilt choked Isabela, her stomach a pit. She wanted to touch Hawke and make everything okay, that somehow it could erase everything: the nights alone in a house with no one to fill it, the pain of recovery.

“I'm so sorry. I fucked up, Hawke.”

“You didn't fuck up,” she said quietly.

“That's bullshit and you know it. Stop making excuses for me so it's easier to confront. You should be furious with me. The sooner you admit it, the sooner we can move on from this.”

Hawke sighed. “I was never angry with you, not really. It's silly but… I tried to be, at first. People said “I told you so” without saying it. For a while, I started to believe them-that I was wrong about you the whole time. It was easier to think that you left because you never cared. It was less confusing to think it was all some sort of elabourate… I don't know. A ploy, maybe. I don't even think that made sense either. That's not who you are, as much as other people insist it is. It was me being upset and, frankly, very drunk.”

“But you were wrong.” Isabela said. “Remember what I wrote in that note when I took the tome?”

Hawke nodded.

“That's why I left… part of it. I never meant for you to get caught up in the mess with the Qunari.” Isabela’s jaw tightened. “It was stupid to think you wouldn't. Trouble always follows you, and you’re always the one to clean it up. Even if it was mine to handle.”

“You had no idea what trouble the tome would bring.”

“It doesn't matter. When I could have done something, I left. I had every intention of running off with the Tome and never seeing you again. I was going to let Kirkwall burn to the ground. People died because of me-you were almost one of them. Can I really say I cared?”

Hawke’s lower jaw moved forward, her slight underbite more pronounced as she sat on what Isabela said.

“You came back.” Her voice was quiet, distant.

“Only to take off again,” Isabela said. The first sign of smoke chucked from foundry buildings filled the view from her window, blotting out the rising sun.

“I tried to do something good for a change, and it ended with you dueling the Arishok on my behalf and an entire city on fire. I told myself you’d be happier if I left so I didn't have to deal with it. I knew I'd hurt you and I did it anyway. It was either face you or run off and hope I'd forget about it. I choose wrong.”

Hawke bit her lip.

“I’m sorry Hawke. You deserved better than what I gave you.”

Rolling her shoulders back, Hawke looked at the high ceiling and sighed. “I forgave you a long time ago. It was a matter of letting it go, I suppose.” She took Isabela's hand into hers, reassuring and light.

“What happened was complicated. We can talk about what the right thing to do was all day, but it's never that simple.” Hawke smiled. “What's that thing you always say? That mistakes make us who we are?”

“Something like that.”

“Then we move on. I think I can finally do that now.” Hawke looked at Isabela, smiling meekly. “I’m sorry I didn’t bring this up sooner. I should have been honest with you.”

“I haven't exactly been honest to you either,” Isabela mumbled

“Look, what I said-”

“I haven’t had a good run of relationships, Hawke. You know why I can’t be tied down.” _Hawke isn’t like him_ , Merrill’s voice thudded in her ears. “It’s hard to forget all of that. But I’ve never given you the opportunity.”

“No. You’re right-you don’t owe me that. It was wrong for me to ask that you tell me about things you’ve made pretty clear you don’t want to share.”

“If it bothers you, then say it.”

A pointed look from Isabela made Hawke groan. “I guess it feels like you don’t trust me with things. But it’s unfair to ask that-”

A hand on Hawke’s thigh interrupted her. “I know it's frustrating. I lie about things I shouldn't or don't tell you the whole truth. But there’s things I can’t tell you. You have to be okay with that.”

“It’s alright. I’m not good at saying the right thing, but if you ever change your mind…”

Trusting Hawke to hold onto pieces of herself that she couldn’t bare to look at was a horrifying prospect. Letting her in meant she’d know her in a way she wasn’t sure she was ready for. Secretly, she knew Hawke was partially justified. There had to be something for her to work with, something that would let her know who she was beyond the veneer of impenetrability.

“Maybe someday.” For the first time, Isabela meant it. “I haven’t made it easy for you to trust me. When I say I’m not leaving until it’s time, I mean it. I want you to believe me.”

“I do.”

Isabela pulled her hand back. “Don't just say that to smooth things over. The fact is, you don't. The constant sly questions about what I'm going to do now and when I'll leave… it makes me nervous. I know you're worried, but I can't reassure you more than I have.”

Hawke looked over. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have taken my insecurities out on you.”

“We've got a few things to work on, don't we?” Isabela grinned, fatigue setting in and eyelids lead.

“I guess this is where things change.”

“It’s going to be hard, Hawke.”

“I'm game if you are.”

Isabela gave Hawke a kiss on the cheek. “Alright.”

Hawke fell backwards onto the bed, overcome with relief. Isabela followed suit, tumbling beside her onto the tattered quilt, the purple faded and white discoloured from whoever owned it before.

“Well, that was exhausting.”

Isabela rolled on top of Hawke, laying her head against her chest. She nuzzled into the crook of her neck, smelling familiar citrus, amber, and the echo of leather.

“Let’s not make it so dramatic next time.”

Hawke’s soft laugh rumbled through both of their bodies. “Us?”

“Us.”

The cawing of crows filtered into the room. Day had broken in time for the lanterns to finally dim, sunlight piercing through the smoke and replacing the artificial glow. Isabela took her hand and laid it across Hawke’s chest, feeling for a heartbeat through the soft rise and fall of breaths. Tentatively, she rose her hand higher to Hawke’s collarbones, stopping just below the jagged scar across her neck. Hawke shifted underneath her.

“It’s okay. I know you’ve wanted to. Just…”

Isabela swallowed. “I’ll be careful.”

She ghosted along the raised flesh, pausing when Hawke shuddered under her fingertips. Hawke took Isabela’s hand and invited her to keep moving, their hands traveling together in the slow journey along her throat. Isabela choked, kissing along Hawke’s neck in a silent apology, feeling her own regret under her lips.

“I don’t regret it, ‘Bela.”

“Even after everything?”

“Especially after everything.” Hawke hesitated. “I shouldn't have said what I did yesterday. I know you care about me.”

“You had reason.”

“Maybe. I just wanted you to know that...and that I care about you too.”

Wrapping the quilt around both of them, Isabela created a warm cocoon for the two of them, easing once more into Hawke. “I know you do. When that big thing happens...I’m going to be right there with you. I promise.”

“I know, ‘Bela.” Her skinny arms wrapped around her back, pulling her close with a sigh like eastern wind. “I know.”


	8. An Offering Of Ten Cups

Hawke looked absolutely miserable.

They stood in front of a giant mirror in the dressing room of the estate, Hawke outfitted in traditional Fereldan noblemen’s garb. Dark cotton made up most of it, befitting the cooler climes of Ferelden. Layered cloth shoulderguards made Hawe look big and imposing, betraying her smaller size. Hints of colour in the form of red arches bordered the high yellow collar, woven white and blue diamonds as a pattern around it. A black tabard with small tassels completed the look of nobility, the Amell crest embroidered in gold across her chest. Pup was off dozing in the corner, his ears twitching from whatever he was dreaming about. Red and black kaddis swirled across his fur, looking just as dressed up as his master.

Spring had finally made its way into summer, the heat making itself known through the estate. Beads of sweat lined Hawke’s brow. If Isabela had to guess, it was out of nervousness than the temperature, dreading the upcoming event.

Hawke sighed into her reflection. Isabela was busy making last minute adjustments in places Hawke couldn’t reach herself. The anniversary of the Qunari attack-and subsequently the day Hawke was named Champion-was that night. In her tenure as stand-in Viscount, Meredith insisted on annual feasts celebrating the day. Isabela suspected it was part of her plan to keep Hawke under her thumb, to remind her that everyone was watching.

“There’s no way I can get out of this, is there?” said Hawke. “Maybe faking my own death?”

“You could say you can’t leave the privy. No one asks questions when you bring that up.”

“I’ll keep that in mind if I decide I’m that desperate.”

Isabela straightened Hawke’s tabard. “At least Varic’ll be there with you. And Aveline.”

“Aveline’s going to be busy, and Varric regails everyone with some ridiculous story about me that I have to deal with that for the entire night.”

“It could be worse,” Isabela said, flattening the back of Hawke’s hair. “Remember how your mother set you up with those noblemen?”

“Maker, she was insistent.” Hawke smiled in a private moment to herself. Time had begun to scab over that particular wound. “I’d prefer it to this. Being Meredith’s showpiece for an evening isn’t my idea of fun. I’m like a pig with an apple in its mouth.”

“I hear she doesn’t exactly approve of your outfit.”

“And I don’t exactly give a shit.”

Sliding her hands over Hawke’s shoulders, Isabela massaged the knots out as best as she could, trying to ease her tension. “You know, I used to raid Luis’ wardrobe to piss him off. I’d come downstairs where his friends were, wearing his pants and making as much of a scene as I could.”

Hawke relaxed into Isabela’s skilled hands. “And how did you manage to do that?”

“How else do you get people to argue? Mention anything mildly philosophical and it takes care of itself.”

“I can’t imagine he enjoyed that.”

“And I can’t imagine I gave a shit,” Isabela smirked.

One of the few positives that came out of her marriage was tutoring—learning to read and write in particular. She was a quick study, mostly out of a need to occupy herself with a book and forget the physical world she lived in. Soon, she took a liking to the more esoteric books in Luis’ collection, especially the raunchier novels. Eventually she learned to weaponize her newfound literary prowess. She was growing teeth, and she intended to fight back no matter how petty it looked. Arguing with Luis’ friends was exhilarating, a way of dueling without the daggers she was secretly learning from Zevran. When her displays grew in boldness, so did Luis. He began locking her in their room in an attempt to keep her under control, his young wife no longer willing to play along.

Hawke hummed, taking a piece of toffee from her pocket and fumbling with the wax paper. She reached behind her to give Isabela the first bite. “It’s less about that for me—the men’s clothing, I mean. I like to remind Meredith and everyone else that they called me a dog lord before they called me Champion.”

“Even though you’re as much Kirkwaller as Fereldan,” Isabela pointed out. She moved the salty-sweet candy around her tongue.

“Funny how that works, isn’t it? Somehow that only mattered once I moved into Hightown.”

“Maybe I should get an estate! They could talk about my fabulous wealth instead of...well.” She stuck her arm out and waved her hand on top of it.

“It doesn’t get much better on that end,” Hawke spoke around her toffee. “Aveline and I are “good examples” or whatever rubbish they like to say. For me...well, I’m not exactly the palest Fereldan around. I got the added bonus of compliments that aren’t actually compliments instead of something outright distasteful. Most of the time.”

“Like the man who tried to get into my underthings by reciting his poetry?”

“I’d say you need to be more specific, but I know who you mean. The one about you being a dusky goddess?”

“Feasting upon his white flesh? That’s the one.”

Hawke chuckled. “Maker, that was bad. Especially the flesh part.”

“We can embroider that onto our blouses, along with “felicitate me!””

“We can’t put on every weird thing we’ve heard onto our imaginary blouses. We’d run out of room.”

“Hmm, stricter curation then. But “felicitate me!” stays.” She patted Hawke’s back. “Looking handsome.”

“I try really hard,” Hawke said. Satisfied with her appearance, she walked to the red velvet sofa, sitting and running her hand along the dark wood of the armrest. “Speaking of places...are you going to visit Rivain again sometime?”

“And speaking of fun things people like to bring up…”

“Sorry.”

Isabela sat and draped her legs over Hawke’s lap. “I don’t go there because I want to. I’m not sure the Qunari would take kindly to me still. Not that they’d do anything, likely—you made sure of that.”

Hawke toyed with a buckle on Isabela’s boots, jiggling the metal clasp. “Can I ask you something?”

Isabela frowned. “You already are.”

“Your mother...do you ever think about her? What she’s doing?”

It was impossible not to. Memories of her were veiled, time wearing away at the edges of something long passed. The only piece she recalled with certainty were her eyes, honey brown just like hers. She remembered travelling all over Rivain with her, and the low chanting off in a curtained room that reeked of incense and herbs.

“She’s Qunari now. Whatever she was before is gone. As pleasant as that was.”

“I didn’t know she converted.”

“I don’t imagine you did,” Isabela said. She spoke carefully. “It’s how I ended up with Luis.”

Hawke tilted her head. “I’m not sure I follow.”

Isabela sighed. “How much did I tell you she sold me for?”

“One time it was a few coins and a goat. Another was whatever jewelry he had on him….oh! My favourite was a basket of fade weasels!”

“Right.” A web of lies that Hawke never questioned. She moved her legs out of Hawke’s hands, planting them firmly into the carpet.

“Before she converted, we tolerated each other. We got on just fine, but we weren’t close or anything. She wasn’t absolutely wretched-you need to be somewhat agreeable if you’re going to charm people out of their coin. After? We couldn’t stop fighting.”

The change in her mother was instantaneous. Overnight, her mother turned from a crafty charlatan to unrecognizable. No longer was she the woman who left Isabela to her own devices in the busy Llomeryn market, or the false see who read bone fragments cast from the hands of poor sods who didn’t know what they were in for.

“It was full out screaming matches. She wanted me to convert with her, and I refused. It only made her more angry.” She grasped the hem of her white smock and stared downwards. Hawke’s hand slid into view, offering it to Isabela, who took it gratefully. “One day she just...stopped. I foolishly I thought I’d won.”

Isabela often daydreamed about going back through time and urging her younger self to flee, that she was so, so stupid for believing she had the upper hand at all. She imagined their conversations and all of the things she’d tell her, how her life would end up if she sat idle. She’d see her own eyes look back, wide with disbelief and freeze in a still picture, the vision ended. Isabela couldn’t imagine what would come next, who she would be without that lapse of judgement. She could only wish her past self the best, that maybe it’d be enough, that somehow, inexplicably, it would make things better for her.

“Two days later, Luis and his men came for me. My new husband,” Isabela said, words filled with venom. “The truth is that she gave me away for fuck all. Nothing.”

_Just take her._

The last image Isabela saw of her mother was blurred by tears of rage and confusion. Luis grabbed her shoulder and pulled Isabela to his side, his perfume overpowering and making her want to vomit. She held back a gag and dug her nails into her palm all the way back to his ship.

“The real question is if she ever thinks about _me._ ”

Hawke shook her head. “Sounds like it’d be the first time she did.”

“Maybe she thought it’d be better that way. In some ways she was right. Eventually.” Isabela sighed. “Maybe she found what she was looking for.”

“What’s that?”

“Why else do people join the Qun? Purpose. I guess she got bored or...I don’t know. It’s stupid,” she gave a short laugh, “for a while I actually felt guilty. Like she had me because it’d give her something meaningful and gave up when I didn’t.”

“That wasn’t your fault.”

“I know that now, sweetness. But whatever new life she thought of, it didn’t include me. Maybe she’s better off now. That’s as gracious as I can hope for.”

“It’s more than she deserves.”

“She made me who I am, for better or worse. Maybe I owe the woman for that.”

“She put you in the worst years of your life.”

The blood left Isabela’s face. Those two years were lived through a drunken haze, starting with the wedding, just before he nineteenth birthday. Endless streams of spiced wine kept her detached enough that she could stomach the lecherous gazes scouring her body, approving of Luis’ “exotic” wife from Rivain.

She couldn’t see an ending in sight. She was trapped and helpless, a weakness she swore she’d never feel again when she was finally free. No more would she be forced to stay in place. Her life was going to be her own, and damn anything that would stand in her way.

She broke her own promise. Time after time she fell into chains and stagnation, from her debt to Castillon to being stranded in Kirkwall. And now, once again, freedom called in the shape of a new ship, like it did all those years ago the night Luis was murdered.

Yet she decided to stay here, in Kirkwall, with all of its problems and moments of small joy to be found. With Hawke.

“‘Bela.” Hawke grasped Isabela’s hands with her white leather gloves. “You don’t owe her anything.”

Smiling, Isabela brushed Hawke’s mess of black hair away from her eyes. It’d finally grown back enough that she could do that again like she used to. She kissed Hawke’s knuckles. “You’re sweet.”

Hawke traced a path down Isabela’s cheek with her thumb, looking at her fondly. “Thank you for telling me about that. I know you avoid this kind of stuff.”

"It was nice to get something off my chest for a change.”

A knock on the doorframe made them both turn.

“Varric.”

“Hawke, Rivaini,” he said, stepping into the room with them. He didn’t look much different from how he usually did, still wearing a revealing red tunic without his signature leather coat, his chest hair on full display. His breeches were fancier than normal however, and his hair drawn back with slightly more care. It looked like he just shaved.

He cocked an eyebrow. “Is...this a bad time?”

“We were just—”

“No—”

Varric held his hand up. “Don’t worry about it. But whatever it is, we still have to go to the Keep. I don’t want to keep our Guard Captain waiting.”

“Aveline will live,” Hawke said, standing up and flattening her tabard. “It’s still early.”

“You know how she is. That’s late in her books.” Varric pointed behind him with his thumb. “I’ll be outside. Care to join me, Pup?”

The mabari woke up with a big yawn and happily followed Varric, who patted Pup between the ears as they went out of sight. With both of them gone, Hawke pulled Isabela off the couch and wrapped her arms around her shoulders.

“Duty calls.”

“One thing after another, isn’t it?” Isabela said, reaching behind Hawke’s back to hold her.

“It’d be nice if it stopped. To just...get away and leave all of this. You know?”

Isabela froze. “You don’t mean that. Once tonight is over…”

A hopeless laugh. “It never ends.”

Hawke placed her forehead against Isabela’s and closed her eyes. Isabela swallowed, her voice quiet.

“Show those prudes who you are, O Champion of Kirkwall.”

“I hate it when you call me that.”

Isabela chuckled. Bringing her hand up to Hawke’s chest, she traced her fingers along the embroidered Amell family crest, stroking the clasped talons of the twin birds.

“My Hawke.”

Hawke opened her eyes, pulling back and looking momentarily confused. Isabela almost apologized for her sentiment. She didn't know what came over her. But Hawke's features softened and she held Isabela close, her voice barely above a whisper.

“My Captain.”

They kissed, Isabela’s heart flying forward, Hawke’s chest against her own, united. Their tongues met in a familiar dance, the sweet taste of toffee still on Hawke’s lips. Every poem in that white book came to Isabela at once, every favourite verse as a clear image she wanted to recite. But none of them could compare to right now. When she opened her eyes, she saw herself in Hawke’s, lost in the ocean blue staring back.

Varric cleared his throat in the doorway. Hawke pulled back, disappointed and stifling a frown, not wanting the spell to be broken. “You said you’d meet me outside.”

“I didn’t say which outside,” he countered.

Grumbling, Hawke fell away from Isabela, cracking her knuckles and straightening her posture. With one last, longing glance, she nodded her goodbye and followed Varric and The Puppy out. Varric turned and looked at Isabela, shaking his head with a knowing smile before heading down the stairs.

A wistful sigh escaped from Isabela. She felt lighter, more free, somehow, than when Castillon was dealt with. Even with all the uncertainty each day brought, the small assurances were comforting. No more looking behind her back, a ship waiting for her. That she would see Hawke in the morning.

Her brow creased as she thought on what Hawke said. It was the first time she voiced a desire to leave. Isabela knew Hawke grew ever disillusioned with her role as Champion, but assumed it was a mantle she was ultimately at peace with. Kirkwall was the home she made for herself. After everything, she knew how important it was for Hawke to have her own certainty that she had that. She couldn't just pack up and travel away.

But Isabela knew she was making excuses for herself. It wasn't that she was positive Hawke would never leave. Selfishly, it was because she was afraid. If Hawke said yes, it came with meaning Isabela wasn't sure she could deal with. It meant Hawke being with her wherever she went, that she would see her entire being laid out, truly in her element as the Queen of the Eastern Seas. The last amount of trepidation crumbled when she was in Hawke's arms. Hawke was a certainty Isabela wanted.

Her laughter filled the room at the simplicity of it all. Of course. It was right there the whole time.

From their expected mornings together to Hawke's clothing left in her room, it was all so very obvious. It was around her arm, that red favour, a piece of her even across the Waking Sea. Every idle thought lead back to Hawke, her airy laugh and soft touch. Everything with Hawke just _was._ And now, she'd done what she thought she couldn't: she let Hawke in, however small it was. The door was left open, a crack where light could shine through. Her secrets didn't scare her anymore. Nothing did when it came to Hawke, not anymore. She was the freedom she was looking for all along, even when staying in place.

_Wouldn't it be nice to tell Hawke you loved her?_

One day Isabela would utter those words and hear them back. To grow with Hawke and let what they had flourish seemed so correct, a natural course, if there ever was an order to things.

Isabela could come to terms with herself. She deserved to be loved. Most of all, her love was deserving enough to have. Isabela wanted more and to give it in return, even the parts that were painful. The future held more than the sea, more than a ship with a crew and treasures plundered. Whatever happened, Hawke would be her compass, ever pointing north to bring her home.

When she left the estate into the sunset, she half expected to see Merrill tiptoeing along the uneven streets of Lowtown, happily telling Isabela what she knew all along.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for taking the time to read this fic! It took a while to get it in a way I was happy with, and I hope you enjoyed it.


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